Monsters
by CitrusLove
Summary: Bizarre Death Note ficlet wants your attention.


_A/N: I love InnerPartySystem. They are the shit. _

_Reviews, plz. That means you, Claudi. -___-" You can't escape me!_

_xD_

_Don't own the mind-gasm that is Desu Noto._

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_'Kill 'cuz you're scared they'll wake up.'_

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They say there are monsters.

'Monsters' pull a string of connotations; brute, beast, demon, devil, fiend, villain.

Freak.

Monstrosity.

Interestingly enough, the basic 'reasoning' behind each of these attributes is directly linked to emotions: such as anger, grief and sadness. Mere hormones stimulated in various areas of the brain. Weaknesses. So are monsters born out of these very human 'weaknesses'?

Yes, you_ become_ a monster, they say. _Become_? One must think, that when one 'becomes' a monster, does one not lose the basic foundations that make one human?

Are we suddenly replaced with the claws and sharp canines, eyes bitterly cruel with slime-soaked rags? Or is it more subtle, a disguise perhaps, in which the villain is suddenly revealed with his malicious devils' horns and bared fangs?

What is definite, whether it is the monster bearing the crafted mask or the furry mass of monstrosity that one believes in, is that humans never stop being monsters, and monsters never stop being human. That is fact.

The term 'monster' can be attached to any figure of society, highly-ranked or not. It ultimately depends on the speaker. But what should happen when an inanimate object, innocent in design, becomes the phone-cord connecting the costumed and the bluntly grotesque?

A notebook maybe, its pages scratched with nails as dark and shiny as leaking tar, sliding its way down the gutter's hallway... The boy, fair and cursed with curiosity, daintily picks up its slim body, a snide remark sizzling on his tongue. His hands are lean, nails clean-cut, not a trace of black scarring its flawless quality.

Yes, they say there are monsters.

Some live in the spaces between glances, lurking in the twitches of the lips, quiet narrowing of the eyes. Their tongues lash out as the long-fingered hand whips across the page, curling the kanji with death's vehemence.

Others live deeper within, controlled with jargon-built sentences, constructed smoothly and efficiently. _Biting_ down so hard on the skin of his thumb, teeth nibbling and clicking until blood wells up; it drops and splatters on his keyboard, successfully sinking down into the rectangle-labyrinth.

He ignores, as best as he can, endorphin-rich dessert sinfully calming the restless beast.

Monsters glimpse out of door-cracks, feeding on the jealousy that spins its way through muscle. Testosterone aids the monster, and when the boy grows up he befriends it, and the monster lets loose. It speaks through aggressive lips, imperatives sharp and harsh, and the men obey submissively.

The monster soothes his bare neck, and he leans into the couch like an old friend. He's nineteen, and he already knows everything. He's wearing sophistication tonight, it matches his grin almost impeccably. The monster is alive in the creases that separate limbs, tight with the will to win.

Ironically, his monster seems comfortable curled around his chest, dormant in the beads that encircle his neck, his rosary, his justice.

Monsters shadow the followers; they give flame to the smoke rising from the screen, the razor-spiked remarks drawn out from the heir. The heir is well-aware of his own barbs, the wire that pulls him into a cold, desolate warehouse.

Then he reminds himself who the real monster is.

_Look under the sink, its where the water leaks._

Alas, there are some people who aren't acquainted to their monster-selves in any of these ways.

They aren't denying them, they aren't taming, using, or observing them.

Some people, sadly, _are_.

_He is a free spirit, liberated from the forceful clutches of conformity._

_He embodies it. _

Some people, although not many, cannot find the human within themselves. They are stuck within whatever their imaginations have to offer, a vivid wasteland of boundless opportunities. Their eyes do not see goals, or human-treasured abstract nouns that we all hold so dear.

_Instruments_, he thinks. His eyes sketch the bleak canvas of society. He notices the thumb-biters swaying to one side, the colours intense and cold, blues and blacks and whites. The other side is where another resides, and the colours contrast brilliantly; rich colours of gold and red, blending a whirling sky overhead, twinkling stars that watch down on a detailed city of lights.

He walks towards neither.

_No. _

Some people go to a different place, where only the shades of grey exist; shady and drawn with unsteady hands, graphite pencil chipping off and smudging at inappropriate pauses in time.

This is where he belongs.

When the monster arrives, he is the only one. He is alone, like everyone else.

And when he looks onto the hazy horizon, he knows.

Real monsters know what tragedy is.

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_Click the button! -swings the pendulum- *seductive music playing* clickkkk_


End file.
